To Sleep, Perchance to Dream
by cactusnell
Summary: Molly has been sleep deprived of late. But her dreams are hardly deprived of anything! Sherlolly


It had been a long several days for Dr. Molly Hooper, pathologist at St. Bart's Hospital, London, as she had now been working a double shift for three days in a row. Normally, this would not happen, as Mike Stamford, her boss, was very fastidious about scheduling. But the absence of two of her colleagues had necessitated this aberration. Dr. Linus (female) and Dr. Croyton (male) has both suddenly taken ill. This could have possibly had something to do with the fact that Mr. Linus and Mrs. Croyton had met for lunch, compared notes on their respective spouses' late night "seminars", and reached the obvious conclusion. There was currently a betting pool concerning which one of the pathologists would return, which one would divorce, and which one would turn up floating in the Thames. Molly just hoped the problem would be settled quickly, as the schedule was killing her!

Thankfully, just before she left that evening, Mike had informed her that she could take the next few days off as compensation for her dedication to duty. Dr. Linus was returning to work the following day, albeit as a newly single woman. Dr. and Mrs. Croyton were moving to Bristol, and no one had, as yet, wound up in the Thames. Molly wondered what river was to be found in Bristol. The Avon, wasn't it? She was still thinking about this when she heard the happy shouts from down the hall. It seems Carol Johnston, medical clerk, had won the pool.

Molly, yawning, made her way home. On such an evening as this, in early May, cool but warm enough to speak a promise of the summer to come, she usually would have chosen to walk home, a distance of a little under two miles. But not this evening. She was truly exhausted. Three sixteen hour days in a row, with a mere five hours of sleep at night, had used up all her reserves. She treated herself to a cab, forcing herself to stay awake for the brief ride home. It was when she got home that she made her mistake.

She knew she should have gone directly to bed. Just fall onto her mattress, fully clothed, face planted in her pillow, and given up. But not Molly Hooper. First, she had to straighten up. And feed Toby. And play with Toby. Then shower. Then eat. Then wash the dishes. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. By the time she finally crawled into bed she had reached that point of being too tired to actually sleep. She lie looking up at her ceiling, knowing it was going to be a struggle. On nights such as these, she tended to sleep fitfully, waking periodically, dreaming incessantly, some bad, some good, some very good, indeed. Especially if they involved the unrequited love of her life, Sherlock Holmes. In the early years of their relationship, their friendship, or whatever the hell kind of ship it was, she could indulge in such dreams without consequence. It was like dreaming of an unattainable movie star. But, as they had grown to know one another better, these dreams had taken on rather uncomfortable overtones. It was one thing to have erotic dreams about someone you may see occasionally on a big screen, or a small screen in the comfort of your own home. But to spend the night performing incredibly erotic acts with the man of your dreams, only to find him sitting across the lab table from you the next morning was a bit discomforting, to say the least. Molly was sure he never missed her unexplained blushes, which made her blush even more. On this particular night the situation was exacerbated by the fact that she hadn't seen the tall detective with the lovely eyes in more than two weeks. Perhaps she was suffering withdrawal symptoms, but she just knew that as soon as she drifted off, he would appear. And while she couldn't wait for that to happen on one hand, on the other she dreaded the discomfort it would once again cause her when next they met.

Molly was at St. Bart's, dressed in her white lab coat, elbow deep in the chest of a rather large opera singer. She could tell he was an opera singer, a baritone, in fact, because as she cut into his lung, the deep tones of "Le Veau d'Or" from Faust went rumbling through the morgue. The devil's song continued to enchant her, even as her own favorite temptation made his appearance through the swinging door, Belstaff flowing around him. He stared at her with his lovely blue-green eyes, dropping the coat to the floor to reveal his even lovelier purple shirt, buttons straining across his well formed chest. The cadaver on the table, as well as the table itself, had disappeared as he approached her. With the single word, "Molly!", he had reached her, his hands immediately reaching for the buttons of her lab coat. Molly was both gratified, and embarrassed, to find that she was naked under the coat. And as his arms snaked around her waist, and his mouth descended on hers, she felt a huge weight on her chest…

And awakened with a startled gasp to find Toby sitting on her abdomen, and looking at her with an evil glint in his eye, somewhat territorial, in fact. Molly cursed him for his poor timing, and shoved him to the floor, determined to get back to sleep as quickly as possible.

They were at Baker Street, experimenting on the liver of a former alcoholic. Molly watched Sherlock as his hands, deftly wielding a scalpel, sliced the organ into manageable pieces. "Jack the Ripper preferred kidneys, did you know that, Molly? But you can't make a decent pate out of a kidney!", he said as he continued to slice. He smiled over at her, once again wearing that damned purple shirt. "It's aubergine, you know. I've corrected you before on the matter, Dr. Hooper."

"Aubergine. Purple, What difference does it make, Sherlock"

"About fifty pounds at the designer's shop, Molly!"

""Fifty pounds? God, you're certainly posh, Sherlock!" Molly looked down at her own attire. She could have sworn she had been wearing her favorite cherry strewn jumper, so she was surprised to see a rather low cut halter top and barely there gym shorts. Sherlock followed her gaze, saying, "I see you've dressed for a workout, Molly. Perhaps I should oblige you?" He now removed his latex gloves with a distinctive snap, and looked at her wolfishly as she backed away. Completely by coincidence, it would seem, she was backing away in the direction of his bedroom. Sherlock instantly bounded after her, catching her up just inside the door. He gathered her into his arms, reaching to untie her top, saying, "My mistake, Molly. I think you may be a bit overdressed for the workout I have in mind!" And once again his mouth descended hungrily on her own, and…

The sound of the wailing fire truck and shouts from the street below brought Molly quickly awake, and to a sitting position in her bed. She rose to look out the open window of her bedroom to see smoke coming from a window across the street, and watched long enough to ascertain that the situation was minor, and was now completely under control. With a heavy sigh, the small pathologist once again settled into her bed. It was now almost eleven o'clock, and she was completely exhausted, and definitely frustrated. To sleep, perchance to dream. She hoped.

This time she was lying in her own bed when she became aware of a tall, lean figure standing in her bedroom door. silhouetted against what little light came from the sitting room windows. Sherlock was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, and staring at her. Once again in the purple shirt.

"Purple shirt again, eh?" she asked.

"It's aubergine, remember?"

"Ah, yes, very posh." Molly smiled up at him in what she hoped was a very seductive manner.

"Are you alright, Molly?"

"I'm fine, Sherlock. And I hope to be better soon!"

"Aren't you going to ask me about the case? Or what I'm doing here?"

"Damn the case! And I know what you're doing her. This is my dream, after all. Now come to bed." Molly moved the covers away to allow him to climb under them. As she did so, she noticed that she was wearing her customary sleepwear consisting of a tank top and pajama bottoms. Not the sexy lingerie she often chose for such dream occasions when she invited the detective into her bed. Not to worry! If the dream went according to plan, they would soon vanish. Sherlock approached the bed, looking down at her with a slight smile, and more than a bit of hunger in his eyes. He seemed unsure of his next move.

"Take off the damned shirt, Sherlock!"

"I thought you liked this shirt, Dr. Hooper."

"Of course I do. That's why you wear it in almost all my dreams. Right up 'til the time that you're not wearing it. Or anything at all! Now, come to bed!"

Sherlock was practically grinning as he removed the now offending shirt. And, as it turned out, the equally offensive trousers. Then he climbed into bed and propped his head up with his hand, looking down at his pathologist who was, it seemed, becoming increasingly impatient.

"Please, Sherlock," Molly said, a bit petulantly, "I don't need you to act like you! Kiss me, quick! Before we're interrupted again." So the detective leaned in and kissed her on the forehead, only to hear her give out a frustrated moan. "Sherlock! Surely you can do better than that!"

So he did.

He rolled himself onto her body, one hand playing in her tangle of long brown hair, the other holding on to her hip, and proceeded to snog her senseless. Molly, waiting for the interruption she feared was coming, was, in fact, greatly relieved by its absence. She gave herself fully to the kiss. It was better than any she had previously experienced, real life or dream life. She felt his hand dip under the waistband of her pj's, and felt his fingers splay over the naked flesh of her bum. His hand was a bit cold, but she remembered that old adage, cold hands, warm heart, and seemed to know, on some very basic level, that in this case it was the absolute truth. Her mind was drifting further and further away, she was losing herself in the feelings, and the the arousal, and the warmth of his cold hand…

"Ouch!"

Sherlock snickered at her exclamation.

"You pinched my bum! That hurt!" Molly spoke in a wounded tone.

"Yep!" the detective responded, popping the "p". Then he watched her face as realization dawned.

"I'm not asleep!"

"Nope!", he said, once again making a small pop.

"What the bloody hell are you playing at then, you git?"

"Evidently, making your dreams come true, Molly, in whatever limited, or expanded, capacity you want. But we can discuss that in the morning can't we? My case is over, I'm exhausted, and you can't tell if you're awake or asleep. Perhaps now is not the best time. I may find that even my ego is not strong enough to sustain the blow should you doze off during our first sexual encounter!"

"I'm not dreaming now, am I, Sherlock? You will still be here when I wake up? Promise?"

Sherlock kissed her on the forehead once more. "Promise. Unless, of course, you sleep until Wednesday. I have an important meeting at Whitehall on Wednesday…"

"That should work out. I have to be back at Bart's on Wednesday. Just to be sure, we should set the alarm for sometime on Monday, don't you agree?" Molly said with a drowsy giggle.

Sherlock yawned into her neck. "Sounds about right. Good night, love. Pleasant dreams."

"I don't think I have to dream anymore, Sherlock." Molly said quietly as she shut her eyes to doze off to the sound of two heartbeats beating in close rhythm.


End file.
